


Playing the Rush

by mythbusterposey



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: AU-typical violence, Alternate Universe - Casinos & Hotels, Alternate Universe - Heist/Robbery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake Fake Relationships, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Las Vegas, M/M, The Sudden Incompetence of Law Enforcement, author has watched much too much Ocean's Eleven, dark and mysterious forces beyond our control, families on both sides of the law, the heist au you're looking for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:24:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7277122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythbusterposey/pseuds/mythbusterposey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Right before his hotel and casino opens on the Las Vegas Strip, Hux is introduced to Kylo Ren. What he doesn't know is that Ren is actually Ben Solo, world-class thief and son of the legendary high-profile burglar Han Solo- or that he and his hotel are Ben's next target. Law enforcement are hot on the heels of Ben and his crew, but there are other forces at work that no one knows about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Playing the Rush**_ \- A poker term referring to a player who has just enjoyed a short-run of good luck marked by winning a very large pot of money in one hand or winning several hands in close succession.

_LAS VEGAS._

A man sprints through office halls, surrounded by glass walls at one point, before disappearing behind drywall and bland wallpaper, the usual decor of the modern office building. The FBI field office in Las Vegas, Nevada is only 20 years old, but its maze-like structure gives it an almost Ancient Greek labyrinthine feeling, only mastered by years of pacing, or in this man’s case, running, through the halls. Narrowly dodging a poor intern with a stack of coffees in her hands, the running man skids around a corner, his well-worn shoes losing grip for a moment. He shouts in a blind panic, weaving through the passersby. He only slows to a stop when he reaches Conference Room 4, straightening his jacket and tie, gulping for air as he catches his breath.

Peering into Conference Room 4, Finn’s dread and panic only worsens when he sees every seat filled. He bites the bullet and slips inside, catching the middle of a speech by another junior analyst like himself. Rey is his best friend, and this is her first big briefing to the FBI Gambling-Related Crimes Council. He feels a physical pain in his chest knowing he’s about to screw it up.

“...the least of our worries, gentlemen, is the infamous ‘Ocean’s-style’ casino cons of the past. Too many people, too much coordination, and it’s a bigger gamble that they don’t all just get caught the moment they step foot into today’s casinos and their modern security systems. It’s more imperative to instead look toward the individuals, the genius-level card counters and hackers that cheat their way into besting the machines. I believe that…”

Finn can’t bear it anymore, she’s about to make a fool of herself if he didn’t stop her. He rushes up to her side and starts speaking in a low voice in her ear before she can tell him to piss off. His words are rushed and pick up in panic the longer he realizes the 20-man council is staring at them. Rey attempts to interrupt him, but he just interrupts her right back, speaking with a somehow-renewed fervor every time she tries to turn to face him.

“...and the NGC chief investigators and Reno PD and their FBI field office have absolutely no clue where they went.”

“They _what_!?”

* * *

_SOMEWHERE IN SOUTH AFRICA._

“Champagne, boys!”

“And girls.”

“ _And girls._ ” Ben Solo corrects himself, grinning wickedly at his crew. He sits atop a crate of newly-minted bales of twenty- and fifty-dollar bills, a freshly-popped bottle of Moët & Chandon dangling from his fingers.

“I thought you grew out of champagne after you turned twenty-three.” The crew’s resident forger and the best liar in two hemispheres, Yolan, laughs. His handsome features are grinning, though, and missing any hint of condescension.

“Yo’, champagne never loses its taste after a job well done.”

“That’s how I know you’ll never grow up. You save special things for celebration.” The heavy arms expert speaks up at his turn to insult their leader. His name is Mashkov, ex-Russian Army, ex-KGB, ex-EOD, ex-everything that has a possibility of leading to all death, fiery and glorious. The scar streaking angrily down his neck and arm stretch obscenely as he grins with mirth.

“The problem with your logic is that I celebrate,” Ben motions to their new loot with his bottle. “Everything.” He’s easygoing, laidback, just the way his father was in the 80s and 90s when he was still the biggest name in high-profile robbery.

Not one to miss out on the habitual roasting, the techie speaks up. “Wouldn’t you lose the taste for it after twenty years of heists?”

“Never, da Vinci,” Ben winks, then takes a long drink of his champagne. They hired their techie straight out of the hands of the police, made her disappear. She’d given up her name, her scholarship, her promising career in a STEM job, to be a hacker and a clutch MacGyver for a group of men that were as loyal to her as she was to them. “You’ll get sick of computers, someday, but champagne is timeless.”

They all groan at his theatricality, but never tell him off for being a luxophile. Being their crew king, he got a bigger cut than the rest, but he always gave the best Christmas presents. He’s brilliant, cunning, and always has a dozen backup plans if his normally-flawless master plan doesn’t work out. He’s a man of a thousand contingencies, a half-dozen alibis so real every document checks out in every country, flawless accents for ten different languages. And he’s got an 8-pack. His father got by on schmoozing and paying off everyone he ever conned, but Ben prefers to lie his way in and out of things. With the most legendary thief in the world as his father, and the most ruthless politician as his mother, he was born with gifts, a knife that only needed to be sharpened to be effective. And he is sharp.

He met his friends along the way, his crew. Yolan he met in Tanzania, running like hell from INTERPOL and his ex-wife. Mashkov tried to kill him the first three times they were in each other’s company, until Ben brought out the keys to any military armory within the United States. He liked to recruit his drivers just a few days before the job, and never kept them longer than until they were hidden once more. Ben’s knee still aches like hell from the bullet his first driver put in it, after taking all 40 kilos of raw diamonds and leaving him to die. Ben never needed to exact revenge save for that one moment. He’d made the moment last.

Overall, his worth is somewhere near $40 million. He spends it on the nicest things the black market can buy: priceless jewelry, hidden luxury real estate, cars illegal to drive in America, rare paintings, bricks and bricks of gold, and his personal favorite spending habit, Armani suits.

 _Another day, another job well done,_ he thinks to himself. He’s going over the events of the last twelve hours. They can’t leave their shipping container on the way to South Africa just yet. Once they’re on a truck to Johannesburg from Cape Town, they can let their guard down. However, Mashkov still has a hand on his gun, da Vinci is still monitoring two different laptops, and Yolan is fiddling with a poker chip, rolling it along her knuckles. They don’t talk about their plans of _after_ a con until they’re safely stowed away in a new city, a new country. Johannesburg would do for a few weeks while the storm blows over in Reno.

Hitting a casino in Nevada is like hitting a cactus in the desert. There’s plenty of them to choose from, but if you choose the wrong one and hit it the wrong way, you’ll be bleeding out for a very long time. Ben and his crew hit a Vegas casino for the first time when he was 25. He’d just come off a very successful heist from a New York City art museum, and was feeling particularly cocky. They had scraped away from the hit toting $2 million less than they’d intended to lift, and Mashkov had gotten that nasty scar he wears today.

The Russian had been rather sensitive about Las Vegas jobs since then.

The Atlantis in Reno sported a Four-Diamond award for its hotel, but they weren’t there to sabotage. They wanted to drain the tables and the slots and the cages. And drain they did. With a cash payout of around $20 million (and the lovely quad-diamond necklace that da Vinci had pouted about until Ben had promised to get it for her), it’s their third-largest payout in their shared 10-year history together as a team. Ben had been doing amateur jobs with his dad for five years, and acted as a consultant on other thieves’ crews until he decided it was time to form his own team of highly-skilled individuals. They’re his dream team.

They’d hit the slots perfectly thanks to da Vinci’s skills focused on the base programming and spoofing the network. The payout had gone straight into the waiting cups of twenty different aliases in three days, split between Ben and Yolan.

The tables were a bit harder, and required a sacrifice from their end money-in-the-hands. It was to lead the feds off their trail, and lead it did. However, the resulting chip imbalance caused the house to requisition a higher amount of money in reserve the night they hit the cages.

Cages were Ben’s pet specialty. With the help of a well-placed explosive, a perfectly-timed 5 o’clock shadow on the cameras, and a distracted door guard, whatever there was to take from the cages would be Ben’s to take, every time. Casinos are predictable and formulaic, yet intrinsically thrilling. They’d walked out with not a single fingerprint left behind, cameras scrubbed clean long before they even realized something was wrong.

Other jobs are more brute-force than others, more cyber-intensive, more sleuthy, more reliant on a well-crafted lie. They all bring something to the table, and work together as a team when it comes down to it. It’s why they’re the best, and always will be.

Ben finishes his bottle of champagne and thinks about the future. There’s no way he could do anything else. He didn’t finish school, learned everything he knows from people that don’t legally exist, and he’s wanted by just about every justice system in 30 countries. He’d never besmirch his mother’s name by taking it, so he changed his last name to Solo so he could do whatever he wanted with his life. And it basically worked.

He even has two alibis that are the sons of his father’s old alibis, as a tribute.

His dad had retired from the business about four years prior, after a particularly bad job had left the legendary Han Solo in the hospital with a broken femur and a pinched nerve that made his hands shake like leaves. Nearly every thief in the country had come to his retirement party, and in a surprising act of restraint and respect, every piece of silverware had made it by the end of the night.

He thinks he’s probably gonna go out like that, old as time and twice as legendary. He doesn’t actually consider himself mysterious, he’s far too humble for that. Being the son of a myth is half the story. His actual hits and jobs are flawless when they go well, but his fuck-ups are just as monumental.

Like the whole driver incident. Mom hadn’t been very happy about that one.

The television screen at the end of the shipping container dings, letting its occupants know that there are about 9 hours left on their journey. Ben tries to doze off, keeping one eye open.

When they arrive in Johannesburg, they’d go their separate ways. The future echoes of _see you when I see you_ already rattling around their minds.

* * *

_LAS VEGAS._

Around the time the heist crew arrives in Johannesburg, on the other side of the world, a young hotel owner reads the news in his office. The walls still smell like fresh paint, and the carpets have that rubbery smell of being too-new. Hux had gone to great lengths to eliminate that smell from the other parts of his hotel, prioritizing his office last, because there was no way in hell that he’d be receiving visitors when his office smells like a fumigated rubber band.

_Atlantis Casino Suffers $20 Million Loss, Diamonds, In Heist_

He gives the headline a look of disdain as he reads the article. There’s a blurb from various agencies, some of the names familiar to him. He’d had to buy lunch for at least 4 higher-ups from the NGC before he was able to pitch his idea for a hotel. He’d been acting at first under the guise of a representative of his employer, Mr. Snoke. Snoke owns four of the most exclusive casino hotels in the world, including Hux’ former place of employment, the Finalizer. He’d been talking with Snoke for a long while about possibly opening up his own hotel, and Snoke had given his blessing and offered to pay for the construction and greasy palms.

Hux closes the paper and sets it on the corner of his desk for his secretary to pick up later. Checking his itinerary on his computer, he lets a sense of calm wash over him. He’s a historically tense man, not a good persona for a new casino owner. With more eyes on him, he has to present himself with an air of _no, sir, no, ma’am, everything is going spectacularly._

He picks up his phone to call his head of security.

“Phasma.” Hux appreciates her curt greeting.

“Hux,” he answers. “I’m assuming you’ve read the papers this morning about Atlantis in Reno?”

“Yes, sir, I was just setting it down.”

“Good. I trust you know where to beef up security.”

“Cages, vault, cameras, sir.”

“Precisely. Thank you, Phasma.”

“Yes, sir.”

“See if one of your men can dig up anything else on the Atlantis incident.”

“I’ll have it forwarded to your computer, sir.”

“No, to my cell. I’m about to leave the office. I have meetings all day.”

“Will do, sir. Anything else?”

“No, Phasma. Thank you.” Phasma hangs up the phone, knowing when she’s dismissed. They’d worked together at the Finalizer, and she had been one of Hux’ stipulations when he departed from Snoke. Snoke had agreed to shorten his financial safety net from a year to eight months in return.

But Hux wasn’t worried about that.

As he leaves his office, his phone rings in his pocket. His mother. He gives his secretary a nod as he steps into the elevator to answer it. His car is waiting outside.

“Hello, mother, I have five minutes,” he greets.

“Bren!” she answers, in her shrill tone. “We just got our reservations for the opening in the mail!”

 _Couldn’t this have been resolved over an e-mail? A text?_ “I’m glad the United States Postal Service is doing their job,” he deadpans. “Was there something you needed from me besides a verbal RSVP?”

“Yes, actually. Your _father_ wants to know if there’s going to be a chance for the two of you to play golf while we’re in Nevada. Unless there is a certain _someone_ distracting you from spending time with your _aging_ parents…” Hux wants to groan out loud, but takes the opportunity.

“It’s complicated right now, mother. There’s been lots of stress with the opening.” His mother eats it up.

“Oh, _Bren…_ ” she simpers, sickly sympathetic to the implication that Hux is having relationship troubles. The truth of the matter is that he’s been single since his college days. He is devoted to his work, a trait which Snoke had greedily taken into account when hiring him on, first as a personal assistant, then as house manager. It only grates on his mind how long it’s been when his mother brings it up. And every time they speak, she brings it up.

He realizes he’s been zoning out to her emotional hemming and hawing, when the elevator comes to a slow and controlled stop at the ground floor. “Mother, I have to go now. Kisses.” He ends the call before he can hear her answer.

The floor of his lobby is a deep onyx, waxed and lacquered within an inch of its life. Sharp, angular lighting elements illuminate the floor to make it gleam. It’d be difficult to maintain when there are actual guests staying in the hotel and playing in the casino, but Hux doesn’t fail to appreciate it whenever he walks through. The wide floor-to-ceiling glass windows cast a beautiful red tint onto his pale hands as he strides to the front doors. They slide open automatically with a hiss. A bellhop on duty greets him, and opens the door to his car. Hux nods to him, but doesn’t tip. This isn’t the old days where the service industry relied on tips. He is already paying his people well enough that they could want for almost nothing, despite being almost certainly never able to afford staying in his hotel in their lifetime.

As the car pulls away from the sidewalk and into Las Vegas traffic, Hux spares a glance back at his masterpiece. Starkiller never looked any different, but Hux found himself getting lost in the details. A sentinel that casts a shadow over the Strip, daring any that pass by to ignore it. The black windows gleam with the light of the early afternoon sun.

For whatever reason, Hux spares another thought on Atlantis, suddenly anxious for any report that Phasma will send. His hotel opens in less than a month, he would not let it be an easy target.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit me on my [Tumblr](http://lukeskullwalker.tumblr.com) and take a listen to my [playlist for this fic](https://open.spotify.com/user/12142625607/playlist/1yhf4lbDjuZ1K4SxEgX97H)!


	2. Chapter 2

_SAN FRANCISCO._

A long time ago, Ben Solo learned not to flinch at things other people said. He has faced many a jilted lover, disappointed members of his crews, and crippling betrayal in his life. It’s like his ability to be surprised has scarred over, permanently. But there was something about looking at the glossy black-and-white picture of Hux that made him feel very vulnerable.

Those sharp features, always cutting through the air like a knife. His eyes, hawk-like, missing nothing. That fiery copper hair perfectly gelled back but not disgusting. Ben has seen his fair share of disgusting marks. Hux was on the short list of the tolerable ones.

“So tell me more. Fill me in,” Ben says. He’s looking over the photos in his apartment in San Francisco.

“He’s 34, scary. Knows eight languages, has connections throughout the world, in terms of casinos. He used to work security at three other hotels.” Yolan is taking point for this next job, had come up with it all on his own. _This hotel opens in three weeks,_ he’d said. _You up for a little time-crunch?_

“Which?”

“The Finalizer, the Resurgent, and the Executor.” Ben frowns when he hears this. It’s known throughout the community that Snoke’s hotels are top-notch, impenetrable.

“And now he shifted over to management. Who’s doing security in his stead?”

“Phasma Zarkofski. Ex-Royal Marines, Special Security Forces.”

“Jesus, Yolan.” Ben gets up from the couch, taking the glossy of Hux with him. “What do you want to do, blow the foundation and pick up the pieces?”

“Mashkov would like that. But no. We already have a man on the inside.”

“Anyone I know?” Ben’s wary, he doesn’t like any variables in his hits.

“Remember da Vinci’s hot roommate?”

“Of course I do.” Ben grins. “She on as a dealer?”

“No, better. Eyes in the sky.” Ben whistles. He’s never had someone planted in the surveillance room before. The worry about the security system is starting to melt away. “She agreed to the low low price of 10%.”

“Done.”

“Done? What do you—?”

“You, Mashkov, and da Vinci all get 25, I’ll take 15.”

“Ben, are you crazy? You’ve never taken less than 26!”

“I’m looking over some things. I don’t need much anyway, you know that. You’ll still get your Christmas present, don’t worry.”

“What are you looking at?”

“Opening night of the casino is getting a lot of hype. There’s no way Hux isn’t getting backed by Snoke for at least the first few months after opening. The hotel is boasting some kind of contest, as well.”

“I heard something through the grapevine…”

“$500 million cash prize to someone at the end of the night. Not sure the game.”

“Hux would know. He doesn’t like leaving anything to chance. Sounds like someone I know.”

“Stop, I’m starting to like this guy,” Ben mutters to himself. “So Mash and Vinch are on board?”

“They’re already at my place.” Ben can hear Yolan grinning through the phone.

“I’ll be there in 36 hours. I gotta see my dad first.”

* * *

_LAS VEGAS._

Rey runs her hands through her hair for the millionth time. Everyone else but her and Finn had clocked out hours ago, but they’re still staring over the reports, the news articles, the statements and testimonies given to insurance companies, trying to get their stolen money back. It’s been like this for a week. Trying to figure out how to beat the Atlantis heist crew.

Finn pipes up. “Maybe we can—”

“No,”

He frowns, thinking. He opens his mouth to speak again. “But—”

“No, we already tried that, remember?”

“Yeah.” he sighs, kicking his feet up on his side of their desk.

Five years with the Bureau and what do they have to show for it? A losing streak a mile long and a horrible case of bad timing. Finn doesn’t regret it. He never finds himself thinking he should have just joined the Army like his dad. Rey is too important in his life to ever consider that.

However, it’s moments like this that get him very, very close to wanting to run.

As he goes to the vending machine to retrieve another round of Doritos and Red Bull, Finn zones out. He’s been thinking too hard about this. Whenever he thinks too hard, focuses too deeply on the details, he starts to panic and think things like _we’ll never catch these guys_.

His Doritos get stuck in the machine.

“On, come on, please…” he says, attempting to shake the machine despite the safety label. “Come on…” he grunts when the red bag doesn’t budge. He only has a five left, and that’s for if he needs more chips and ‘Bull. He squats down to try and reach his bulky arm up through the small safety door. He groans and sighs, sitting in front of the machine and staring at the wall.

His eyes slowly focus on the outlet plug that powers the vending machine. It takes him a few seconds, but he finds himself remembering a case they had sometime last year.

The team had cut power to the hotel three times: once to get them inside the secure area, once to play a prerecorded video in place of the live feed to the vault, and once more to secure a safe exit. The system had a built-in security measure that reset and open every door in the hotel and casino. An EMP pinch had knocked out every CCTV camera on the Strip, making it impossible to tell which hotel had been robbed at first. The team had gotten away without a trace. They’d left one fifty-dollar bill on the floor of the vault, an obscene cartoon smiley face doodled over Ulysses S. Grant. That M.O. had never been seen after that in any major or minor robberies, and was dubbed a fluke by the FBI.

Finn reaches forward to the plug, a sliver of doubt staying his fingers for a moment before he grabs the cord and yanks it from the wall. The light of the machine goes out, casting the break room into darkness.

To his left, Finn hears the Doritos bag drop into the retrieval box.

“Rey…!” he nearly smashes into a table, forgetting his chips and drink, on his way back to his partner.

“What is it?” she asks, weary and quite melodramatic. Her hair looks worse than it had been when he’d left.

“I know what we have to do to catch ‘em.”

* * *

_ELSEWHERE IN LAS VEGAS._

“Yes, thank you, Agent Southern. Thank you. It was great talking with you. We'll be in touch.” Hux hangs up the phone and groans. Anonymous tips to the police about a potential heist of his hotel. He’d told them, _we haven’t even opened yet._ But the idea of a half-billion-dollar prize is too big of a target. He groans again. Damn the prize. Damn Snoke for insisting on it. Damn himself for letting Snoke manipulate him like this.

Hux knew he had to detach himself from Snoke as soon as possible. It’s why he didn’t argue the shortened monetary support term. Snoke had been sitting in hot water for a long time, accusations of fraud and even putting hits out on other competing hotels. Snoke’s lawyers had dealt with all of those accusations in a timely manner.

He himself had been paid off to swear Snoke would _never_ do those things. But if there was one thing Hux hated more than being under someone else’s control, it was a liar. He preferred the truth over comfort, it helped him keep his head in decision-making times.

And if there was a decision to be made about Snoke’s wrongdoings, he’s sure he wouldn’t be paid off this time.

He speed-dials Phasma and paces his office. She picks up on the second ring.

“Sir.”

“We have a slight problem. I need to see you in my office.” It’s a clean room, he’s sure of it. He hadn’t let anyone in without deep background checks. There’d be no bugging his offices, that’s for sure. He’d let it happen to Snoke, but those hard drives are in the Cayman Islands.

“Right away, sir.” She hangs up on him and is in his office less than five minutes later. “What’s the problem?” she asks, slightly tense.

“I just got off the phone with an Agent Southern from the Las Vegas FBI office.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Incidentally, we’re the subject of the world’s next-biggest casino heist.”

Phasma frowns a tremendous frown, even for her. “Sir, we’ve made our security systems in the image of the improvements made to the last twelve major heists, I doubt there’d be anything we haven’t tested or seen before.”

“That doesn’t mean we won’t be vulnerable. We’re still hooked into the Las Vegas power grid.”

“We have four back-up generators—”

“Order two more. On the day of the opening, make sure we’re running on solely those,” he snaps. “Triple-check the manufacturers, also.”

“Yes, sir.” He knows she thinks he’s overreacting about this, but that $500 million prize looms over his head like an omen. _It’s just Snoke’s money. Maybe he could stand to lose for once._

“And if you can…” he leans in closer, paranoid as ever. “Contact Mr. Stabbert. Have him look into the guest list for any...peculiarities.”

Phasma nods, and can tell that’s all. She spins out of the room on her heel and walks quickly to the elevator, already making calls on her cell phone. Hux wonders what his father would have to say. He and Hux’ mother curate an art museum in London, and have had their fair shares of robberies in the past.

“Ha. ‘You’re being so _paranoid_ , boy.’ he’d say.” Hux shakes his head.

Is he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit me on my [Tumblr](http://lukeskullwalker.tumblr.com) and take a listen to my [playlist for this fic](https://open.spotify.com/user/12142625607/playlist/1yhf4lbDjuZ1K4SxEgX97H)!


	3. Chapter 3

_ LAS VEGAS. STARKILLER. _

Hux is starting to get sick of this place. He glares at himself in an artfully-tarnished gold mirror piece near his secretary’s desk. She’s downstairs retrieving lunch. He hasn’t done a walk-through for progress in two days, he’s been so busy doing paperwork and asskissing, getting licenses from the police and poring over hundreds of background checks and vetting the reporters and news stations allowed to cover opening night. He feels anxious, stir-crazy. He thinks he’s going to break out or something from the stress.

Finally, his secretary walks in pushing a cart, Phasma in tow. Right. He’d asked to bring her up as well. He may not be as nosy into matters like  _ do the sheets show wrinkles _ currently, but his security has to be perfect, or this whole thing doesn’t matter.

Hux takes his tray from his secretary and leads Phasma inside. He doesn’t like eating in front of others, so he ignores the plate for the time being. 

“What’s the status on those generators?”

“The first one arrived, it’s being installed as we speak. The others should be arriving later this week, there was an issue at the manufacturing company, sir.”

“What kind of issue?”

“The workers are on strike. The first generator was the only one they had in stock, sir.”

Hux is baffled. “On strike. On strike for what?”

“From what I can gather, sir, they’re not being paid enough.”

“Oh for God’s—” He rolls his eyes and walks round his desk to grab his phone. He opens the line to his secretary. “Heather, please get me the number to the company supplying our generators.”

“Right away, sir.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and counts to ten.

“How much do the workers want to continue operations. I need those generators, Phasma.” He seems fevered to her.

“When’s the last time you slept?” She drops her formalities when he’s being like this.

“This morning, about an hour or so.” He’s too tired to call her out on her concern by this point. “And about 12 whole hours this last week.”

“Go take a break. I’m going to handle this. No. No. Go sleep, I don’t want to see your face for at least ten hours. When you’re rested up, go do a top-to-bottom inspection, you at least enjoy those. Don’t worry about the security.” He makes a move to object, but her grip on his arm belies her strength. “I’ll send your food to your room. You can’t work like this.”

“Fine,” he scoffs. “Seven hours. Not ten.”

“Nine. And I’m not budging.” The pair glare at one another for a few seconds, but Hux concedes again, and struts out of the office.

“Phasma will take the call from the generator company, direct anything serious to her. Find me personally if there’s an emergency. I’m going to be in my apartment. Shift all meetings back. And send my lunch to my room. Phasma, pay the workers whatever they want, but don’t seem too generous.”

Heather nods to him. “Sleep well, sir.” Hux had hired her for how observant she had been. Just before her interview, he’d walked into the waiting room, watching her direct a group of lost tourists in fluent Mandarin. He’d almost overlooked her, thinking he’d already hired her before then.

His apartment is on the floor just below the penthouse suite. He’s in the business of hospitality, and would give up his own bed for the right guest. Speaking of his bed, it’s never looked so inviting as it does right now. Loosening his tie and removing his jacket, he dresses down for some rest time. His head is blessedly worry-free, knowing things are safe in Phasma’s hands. She’s a great second-in-command to have, and he trusts her implicitly.

The lights dim and the curtains draw over the bright view of the Las Vegas Strip at the push of a button. Ease and comfort, thrill and magnificence. The yin and yang of the casino hotel. Hux’ whole life has been centered around order and balance. No one has been able to throw a wrench in his machines before.

He dreams of clocks and a looming dark cloud.

* * *

_ LAS VEGAS. PARADISE. _

Yolan’s house in Vegas is in one of those 60s-era neighborhoods, those intensely-clean kind of places. It’s close enough to the Strip to act as a home base, but removed enough that they don’t have cameras on them at all times. The furniture is comfy, the cellar is well-stocked, and its doors are always open to any number of thieves, con men, and scoundrels.

The surface level of the house is completely innocuous, but the basement is chock-full of equipment enough to blow the doors of Fort Meade, the Vatican, and the MGM Grand. A gaudy, awful yellow banner hangs on a back wall.  _ IN IT FOR THE MONEY _ , boasts aqua blue letters. It’s their good luck charm whenever they’re in Nevada.

They’re all currently a few beers in, hunched collectively over a square table littered with schematics and printouts. “I managed to sleep with the architect’s wife, and she showed me around the office,” Yolan brags as he unrolls a tight tube of blueprints for the casino floor. “She was nice enough to promise to not tell her husband.”

“Oh yeah, because promises involving you are so water-tight,” da Vinci rolls her eyes and taps away on her tablet, messaging three people at once, while altering lines of code. It all goes over Ben’s head, but he can make a computer say “Hello World!” like anyone else can.

“Alright, I’m counting three doors into the cages, and ten air ducts up top. Doors look pretty shored up, we won’t wanna come at those from the front.”

“Are you suggesting another plant?” Yolan says, crossing his arms. “I could sleep with someone.”

“Maybe not a physical one. Or even a person.” The three members of his team exchange glances with one another, but this is typical for Ben. He’s brilliant. He’s crazy. His plans are pretty much flawless. He’s quiet for a moment longer, gears still visibly turning. “Do you think you can get ahold of the monitors for the computers at each desk in the cages?” he directs to da Vinci.

“Sure. I can set up an endpoint backdoor now, it’ll be less detectable once the systems are fully online and operational.”

“Good. Do that.” He pushes a hand through his hair, frowning at the table. “Where can we access the air ducts that lead to the cages?”

“Uh, you see how small this opening is? You can hardly fit a microwave through those, let alone your six-five ass.” Yolan says, jabbing a finger at the ducts on the blueprints.

“Just tell me where,” Ben shakes his head. Yolan is a little miffed. Ben said this was supposed to be his job, his lead. But here’s Ben, taking over again.

“First accessible is the bathrooms.” Ben shakes his head. Too conspicuous. Hux must know about that too. The bathrooms are almost right next to the cages, where security’s gonna be tight.

“And the next accessible?”

“Next is a maintenance closet, a conference room, and then the Japanese fusion restaurant.”

“Conference room.” Ben nods and rubs his hands together. “Here’s how we’re draining the cages.”

* * *

_ LAS VEGAS. FBI FIELD OFFICE. _

“Sir, the hotel just ordered 3 generators for emergency power. They seem to know something we don’t.” Rey says emphatically. Assistant Director Skywalker is giving them a tremendous frown. “We believe,” Rey glances at Finn. “The crew targeting Starkiller is going to try to take out the power grid, to down the security system and gain access to sensitive areas like the vault and the cages.” She takes a deep breath in. “However, there’s some kind of disruption at the manufacturing plant that produces the specific generator the hotel wants.”

“Have you attempted to contact the hotel owner at all?” Skywalker grumbles.

“Well yes, of course, sir, but—”

“They told us someone else was assigned on the case.” Finn says, interrupting Rey.

Skywalker is silent for a few moments, looking them both over before sighing. “I suggest that you drop it for now. Focus on your other assignments, and we’ll discuss this later.” He stands, prompting the others to stand as well.

“But sir—”

Skywalker waves a hand. “Focus on your other assignments, and we’ll discuss this later. I have some phone calls to make.”

Scolded and frustrated, the duo leaves his office. Once the door is closed, Luke slouches into his chair.

“Han, what the hell did you do this time…” He groans, and picks up his secure phone. Dialing a 650 area code,  _ H.S. _ is the first listed contact. He holds the phone to his ear, closing his eyes to keep in his exasperation.

“Luke!” Han bursts out on the other side of the line. “Nice’a you to drop a line to an old senile man like myself.”

“Cut the crap, Han, I need you to tell me right now what Ben is doing.”

A shocked silence follows from the other end. “He’s just out doing a job is all. Asked me to look and see if I could get him a room for opening night. He didn’t tell me any details, but there’s a lot to infer when it’s the biggest event in Las Vegas!”

“I thought I made it _ explicitly clear _ not to take any jobs here! I don’t want to see my nephew’s kneecap on the floor of another fucking vault, Han!”

The silence shared is one of agony and anger. Han had been quick to want to cut Ben off from that world. He just wanted to see his son’s eyes glitter in pride, see his face reflected in stolen gold, watch him roll around in all the riches his boy deserves. He nearly had a heart attack when the news got back to him. Han had left breadcrumbs for Ben to follow to the bastard that hurt him. Han wishes he could have done it himself, but this was Ben’s revenge to get. Leia had paid for all the best doctors and treatments and surgeries. It was impossible to keep Ben out of the game by that point, however.

“I don’t know what he’s doing in Vegas, Luke.” Han sighs. “I warned him that you would have to look into it and you know he looks up to you a lot. He hates disappointing you.”

“I’m not—he isn’t a disappointment, Han. He is going to get himself killed, or worse, depending on the hotel he hits. I know this one is in at least one way connected to Snoke. And Snoke is subject to multiple investigations of fraud, organized crime, and murder.”

“You know I can’t call him off of this, Luke. He’s a daredevil at heart. He’s got a chance to bust a First Order hotel. I suggest maybe you cooperate with him, see if he can pull something off for you and the FBI to use in those investigations.”

“He’d never agree to that. You know he wouldn’t, Han.”

“On some other hit, yes, but he told me he isn’t even taking the reigns on this one.”

“What do you mean?”

“His second is taking over for once.”

“Jesus, Han….”

“I know! I know. That’s why I offered my expertise on the matter. He’s gonna get himself in such deep shit unless he has complete control over all aspects of it.”

“Your expertise on any matter has been dubiously helpful.”

“Hey, hey the Death Star case—”

“You’re only allowed to bring that up at Thanksgiving and you know it.” Han just laughs. “Jeez how did I get into this family. Half are law-keepers, half are law-breakers.”

“You’re telling me, kid.” Luke sighs and is quiet again. “I’m gonna call him up, try to get the skinny on it. I’ll try to help out as much as I can, but there’s no telling how deep he is into the op at this point. Don’t tell Leia.”

“She’d kill the both of us.”

“That’s for sure.”

“Good talking, Han. Thank you.”

“No problem, Luke.” They hang up.

* * *

_ SAN FRANCISCO. THE SOLO-ORGANA RESIDENCE. _

“Leia, I’ve gotta go.”

“Go where?”

“I’ll….call you when I get there.”

“Am I going to see you or Ben on the news first?”

“If all goes well, neither.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit me on my [Tumblr](http://lukeskullwalker.tumblr.com) and take a listen to my [playlist for this fic](https://open.spotify.com/user/12142625607/playlist/1yhf4lbDjuZ1K4SxEgX97H)!


	4. Chapter 4

_ LAS VEGAS. PARADISE. _

Yolan checks his watch for the fourth time in the last five minutes. By his count, Ben and his dad have been arguing in the back room for the last 40 minutes. Han had arrived at the house around 8 that morning. The op was supposed to go hot around noon. Mashkov and da Vinci have been playing chess with one another while the live digital architecture of the vault renders out.

“...and you think that’s the  _ RIGHT _ thing to do?”

“You know what? You’re being such a hypocrite right now. You did jobs ten  _ times _ as bad as this, in  _ Monaco _ !” Ben yells. “Monaco! Who takes a casino job in Monaco!”

“I lost three guys on that job, and nearly lost your Uncle Chewie!”

“You used to tell me about the Monaco job as a bedtime story, dad, you’re not gonna be able to talk me out of this or any job. I want to do this, and if you took four damn seconds to listen to what we have, you’ll see that it’s actually possible!”

There’s silence, which makes Yolan’s head turn to the door of the room. Han says something too soft for them to catch, and suddenly the door is opening and the two of them are walking out.

“Han!” Yolan exclaims. “Didn’t get to say hi when you stormed in.” They shake hands, and Ben is moving towards one of the SmartBoards.

Ben is already talking, reviewing their plan.

“We already have a plant in control, she’s gonna keep all eyes away from us as we hit the floor and hit the cages later on. We get close to Hux, we figure out which game is gonna leak the big prize, and we hit it hard, but rounding out our drainage as to not draw attention to ourselves. Got a program waiting in the wings that’ll raise our chances to 99% on slots  _ if _ it’s in slots. Once we’ve cashed that out, trigger a security measure that will drain the cages as soon as they’re full again. The security protocol states that the cage ladies have to stuff some special duffel bag full of the cash, and hook it to a wire that extends through the ceiling. We take control of the wires, and instead of feeding it back to security, feed it into our conference room, replacing the actual cash with half a billion in counterfeit.” His thumb is clicking through their schematics slides at the speed of light. He’s obviously annoyed and is just seeking to confuse his father into submission.

Han is looking pensive, sharp but relaxed. “Where’s your counterfeit source?”

“Using the same guy we did in the Cape Town job. It won’t matter how good the forge is, just that there’s enough cash and all the right bills the security team is expecting.”

“How well does your little program work?” Han asks, turning toward da Vinci.

“Flawlessly. Undetectable by all of our breakers here. It looks legit until you cue the right sequence, and...money.”

“And you’re implementing this how? I heard he was buying some newer generators to supplant any kind of grid failure.”

Yolan and Ben share a look. “Where’d you hear that? You’re not working this job, too, are you?”

“Your uncle called.”

Ben’s eyes roll along with his body, sulking and dramatic. “You told Luke!? You have _ got _ to be kidding me right now, dad.”

“He called _ me _ . Some idealistic FBI duo is looking into your Atlantis case, and by some stroke of luck they found out you’d be most likely hitting Starkiller. He’s not gonna be able to shake them off this time.”

Ben is glowering, arms crossed over his massive chest. “Fine. I can’t believe this. The FBI.” he scoffs.

“The reason they call it  _ stealing _ is because someone doesn’t want you doing it, Ben.”

* * *

_ LAS VEGAS. STARKILLER. _

“Yes. I’ll be able to meet you for lunch. How does...12:45 work for you?” Hux says pleasantly into his phone.

“Absolutely. In your hotel?”

“I’ll notify the chefs. Thank you Agent Southern—” the dialtone interrupts him before he can finish his goodbye. Such a rude man, for an FBI agent. He buzzes Heather. “I need a lunch reservation for 12:45 in the bistro downstairs. For two.”

“Right away, sir.”

Hux looks around his office. New details from his FBI friend, just on the lookout, he says. The security of his hotel will be a massive target, he knows. He has a name for himself from his time working for Snoke. He’s thwarted more robbery attempts than any. He wouldn’t let his hotel stand unguarded for any period of time.

His inspection yesterday had brought up no security-related concerns, which helped him discover that his hotel is greatly suffering in terms of supply. First the generators, then the bedsheets have been on backorder, and the furniture that  _ is _ here isn’t anywhere near done being built. He had chewed out his foreman and other supervisors in charge, and fifty rooms had been finished to his liking that day. His office still smells like paint.

He checks the shiny black watch on his wrist. 10:55. He has a few hours to ready himself for meeting with the FBI. Heather had most likely already moved his schedule around for his lunch today, so there wasn’t much worry about those matters. He takes an hour off to spend at the gym before showering and getting ready for his lunch.

He realizes, in the shower, that he hasn’t left the hotel premises at all for nine days. He nearly drops his soap in disgust with himself, and dresses with a frown on his face. Maybe if he wasn’t so paranoid he’d be able to leave the hotel for a few hours and relax, grab a drink, something. Meet someone that didn’t work for him.

Damn. His mother still thinks he’s going to have someone there with him when they come for the opening. He’d have to start planning some elaborate reason they disappeared conveniently before their dinner.

As he strides across the lobby to his restaurant at 12:15, a huge man knocks into him, nearly sending him careening to the ground.

“Oh! I am so sorry about that, sir, that is completely my fault—”

“No, no, I should have been watching where I was going—” Hux interrupts. Large hands are straightening his suit jacket, dusting his shoulders off, righting him. Hux is bewildered by how pleasant it feels.

“There. Right as rain.” Hux finally looks up at the other man. They share a height, but the other man stands just a few inches taller than him. Warm dark eyes that crinkle at the edges smile, as do his lips, thick and luscious. Perfect black hair hangs around his ears but out of his face. The suit he wears is of a lighter brown, with a green shirt beneath to bring out the color in his eyes. If ever Hux had time to sit down and come up with his ‘type’, this would be it.

Shaking himself, Hux returns with all his graces in full force. “Thank you, sir.” Something possesses him to continue speaking. “Are you staying here at the hotel?”

“Ah, yes, I just had my bags sent up.” The man looks up toward the glass elevator, as if he could see his luggage ascending even now. Hux’ mouth goes a little dry at the proximity to the warm column of the man’s pale neck. “2110.” He winks. Fucking winks.

The number echoes like a gunshot in Hux’ brain. “2110.” he repeats back, dumbly. His brain catches up. “And has everything been a pleasant experience thus far? Any problems you see? I’m the owner. Brendol Hux.” He puffs his chest out a little in pride, and can’t be bothered to think on the time, his lunch meeting, or security problems.

“Oh, everything has been very pleasurable so far. I’m really looking forward to staying here. In your hotel, Mr. Hux.” Hux has never heard his name be said so sensually in all his life. He can only hope at this point that his complexion resembles something normal.

“I haven’t caught your name, Mr…” 2110, 2110, 2110…

“Ren. Kylo Ren. Just call me Ren.” His features take on an adorable fit of embarrassment, which Hux finds endearing and relatable.

“Mr. Ren.” Hux nods. “Will you be here through the opening?”

“I endeavor to be. There’s certain factors affecting my stay at this point. Though so far, the service has been impeccable.”

Certain factors affecting...what? Hux can’t seem to form words. He shakes himself from it promptly. “I’m so glad to hear it. If you’ll pardon me, Mr. Ren, I’ve a meeting to make. I hope you continue your stay here. Continue to. Enjoy your stay. Good day!” Hux manages not to blush like a fool in front of the man as he makes a swift, if rude, retreat into the bistro.

“Have a good day, Mr. Hux,” the dark, warm voice at his back says. Hux is sure he looks a bit like a ruddy tomato by the time he makes it into the dining room. Heather had told him the mysterious Agent Southern was seated near the back, so Hux walked with confidence until he found a man that seemed to fit the personality of the voice on the phone.

Agent Southern had a sort of beach-blonde colored hair, pushed back from his forehead in a business-casual kind of way. His deep purple coat hung over the side of the chair, and his sleeves were rolled up, tanned fingers paging through a manila file that was promptly put away as soon as Hux approached. He was pierced in place by sharp gray-blue eyes and a neutral expression. “Mr. Hux,” the man says, voice sounding seemingly more arrogant in person than on the phone. Hux curbs his annoyance and holds out a hand.

“Agent Southern, I presume. I apologize for my brief lateness, I—”

“Overlooked.” Agent Southern says, foregoing shaking hands and instead motioning for Hux to sit across from him. Hux bristles, but swallows his pride.

Hux sits as directed. “What did you have for me, then?” he would match Southern’s brusqueness, then. He hasn’t been pissy with someone on purpose since he was in his early twenties. The service and hospitality industry beats that out of you fast.

Southern drops another file on the empty plate before Hux. Hux picks it up gingerly, and reads it almost as intensely as Agent Southern reads the menu given to him by the waitstaff.

Hux is about halfway through the (rather unenlightening) file when it’s plucked from his fingertips. A waitress comes by and stands there silently until she sees that Hux won’t implode from the rude gesture. In a cool voice, she asks if they would like to order.

“Thank you, yes.” Hux bites out.

“Yeah, so, salmon salad, avocado on the side, thanks. And the pilsner on the side, thanks sugar.” Southern bites out. The waitress’ cool seems to slip a moment, eyes glinting with malice for a moment before a slow and controlled nod.

“Right. Earl Grey, then the Cobb, please.” Hux says, handing over his menu wordlessly. It leaves his fingertips seamlessly, dealt with. He’s pleased with the efficiency; he normally eats in his office and doesn’t get to observe dining room operations. It gives him a swell of pride when the waitress bites out the sharpest smile to Southern before walking away, heels clicking in time.

“Whadda sight.” Southern says, positively leering. Hux holds in his disgust along with every other emotion that’s bubbled up recently. “Anyway. The long and short of it is that your hotel’s gonna be hit hard. I’ve been around the block a few times. They wouldn’t let me follow those idiots on the Atlantis case so obviously your hotel is more important.”

“How disappointing, the Atlantis is a reasonably respectable hotel. Its heist deserves better attention on it.” Hux says this for propriety’s sake.

Southern ignores it entirely. “I looked into the guys running recon on your joint.” he takes a slurping sip of ice water. “They’re more smashy than grabby, they like to wreck the place before they make their escape. Tear all the pretty bedsheets they can, fuck with the plumbing, shitsplosion, tear down those nice little decorations you have, they’ll take one look at that shiny floor you have in the lobby and run a jackhammer over it if they can.”

“How...vile.” Hux says, a bit of his sneer coming out. Anger is bubbling up in his chest, a protective nature coming out for his hotel. “And they don’t drain funds as devastatingly as one thinks?”

“This case almost went to the Domestic Terrorism division first, buddy. Take it from me,” their drinks come out at that moment. “There’s one thing you don’t need to worry about.”

“What’s that?”

“They’re not in it for the money.”

* * *

 

_ STARKILLER. ROOM 2111. _

Hux’ sneer comes through the small camera hidden on the painting behind Agent Southern. “ _ How...vile. _ ”

Ben is shrugging out of his shirt. “Aw, he’s cute when he’s mad.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Benny. You have the weirdest types. You know, this guy has probably killed people for Snoke.” da Vinci says from the bed, paging through the operating manual of a commercial pulley system.

“No, he’s soft-bellied. Angry, though. He’s just chock-full of all sorts of repressed emotions.” Ben says, stretching and showing off for an audience of himself in front of the mirror. “Super-duper cute. You ever watch a guy like that explode?”

“No. I really haven’t, Benny.” da Vinci says. There’s a knock at the door, and Ben answers, after checking the peephole. Mashkov walks in, sporting a dark gray utilities maintenance uniform.

“This is humiliating, you know.” he drawls, setting down a large toolbox and a few meter readers.

“You’ll be the honeypot next time, handsome.” Ben coos, fussing with his hair in the mirror. “How’d the recon go?”

“Almost got caught. The generator was delivered, though. Is set up as fifth contingency.”

“Fifth contingency, hm.” Ben says, expression shifting into one of pensiveness. Da Vinci watches for a moment, but when there’s no instant explanation from Ben, she goes back to her pulley systems.

Mashkov cleans a gun as they wait for Han to return from lunch with an old friend in the suburbs.

“ _ And so what do you suppose I do, if these devils are coming and can’t be stopped?”  _ Hux asks from twenty-one stories below.

“ _ Not much. We haven’t gotten faces on these guys yet, since they’re new on the scene and hard to track. I’ll keep you in the loop when more information comes in, but for now, you may wanna up your insurance premium.” _

“When did Southern come about?” Ben laughs.

“He’s new.” Mashkov answers, looking down his sights.

“I like him.”

“Hux does not seem to.”

“I know, that’s why I like him. I don’t think I’ve had this much fun on a job for a hotel that hasn’t even opened yet.”

“When was last time you had job with unopened hotel?” Mashkov asks, mildly interested.

“Hm….I think it was just after you tried to kill me the second time.” Ben says.

“Ah, Los Angeles.”

“We have such great memories there.”


End file.
